


All The Wrong Questions

by Fox_In_A_Box



Category: Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Graphic Violence, it's not even a real tag but well, pre-Worm, updates when it updates, vaguely antagonistic co-workers to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-02-28 14:42:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18758503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fox_In_A_Box/pseuds/Fox_In_A_Box
Summary: Five times the Number Man asked the wrong question and one time he provided an insightful answer.





	1. One.

There were several adjectives Harbinger could have used to describe the girl standing before him. Eventually, he settled for 'odd'.

Because in spite of the many interesting encounters he had made while travelling the country with the Nine, he had never met someone who managed pull off such a bored expression even when dealing with the recruitment of one of the most infamous parahumans around. Nor had he ever seen a teenage girl dressed in a fashion that would have been more suited for a mob boss in an old action movie, and still somehow managed not to look any less intimidating because of it.

The world is all about first impressions, whether we like it or not. Which is why, when the woman who referred to herself as Doctor Mother had decided to introduce them exactly eleven minutes and thirty-eight seconds before, Harbinger had put on his best imitation of a polite smile and, after a moment of hesitation, had extended his right hand. The handshake had been brief, awkward. It occurred to him that probably none of them was old or experienced enough in the field of formal introductions to know how to behave in that kind of circumstances. Two teenagers playing adults.

"So," he began. "What's your deal? Precognition?"

What he got in response could be hardly be considered an answer. 

"I win."

Harbinger immediately decided he wouldn't bother with inquiring further. Something about the girl and the way she had made sure to tell him as little as possible about her long-term goals and his future role in the organisation suggested him that she wouldn't bother to elaborate on it, anyway. When he had dared ask her where she was from, she had responded with a non-committal 'far from here' that had done nothing but fill his head with even more questions - most of which he was sure she would have answered much in the same vague, unsatisfying fashion.  So he left it at that. Arguing with his new co-worker was the last thing he needed, really.

What he needed was to settle down, wrap his head around the fact that the events of the last couple of days would go on to change the rest of his life - and possibly the fate of the entire world, if there was any truth behind the words of his new employer. Six months before, he was ravaging the country with a renowned clan of super-powered murderers, and now he had a purpose, something to look forward too, something that promised to make good use of his abilities. Something that might very well be the change he had been looking for since the moment he had gathered his courage and walked away from Jacob and the lifeless body of the man they had slain together.

He turned around and walked into what Contessa had called _his office_. The room was almost empty and completely white. Too white. A writing desk stood in the centre, along with two chairs and a computer. Without prompting, his mind started to work around the size of the décor he would need to cover at least half of the walls. A bit of sunlight would have been nice too, if he ever managed to set up a window, and - last but not least - he would have to get rid of the chairs. Harbinger took a couple of hesitant steps forwards, figures and measurements dancing at the edge of his vision as the laid out a rough blueprint in his head.

"You're free to make any adjustments you need," he heard Contessa say from her spot near the door, as if she had just read his mind. "But you might want to discuss them with the Doctor first. And of course, we're going to arrange another room with a bed where you can sleep at night. You do sleep, right?"

Harbinger cast her a glance over his shoulder. "Yes, I...you don't?"

She just shrugged.

Harbinger took advantage of the momentary stalling of their conversation to get more acquainted with his workspace. He slid his backpack off his shoulders and placed it on the desk, starting to take out one by one his scant possessions. The battered copies of 'Frankenstein' and 'Lord of the Flies' ended up in the bottom drawer, soon followed by the journal he had started keeping sometime after joining the Nine and had ended up abandoning soon after, once the daily entries had started to get repetitive. Once he had set the few spare t-shirts he had on one side of the desk, a temporary placement until he would be able to rearrange them in his sleeping quarters, only two more items remained. As his fingers brushed against the dull edge of a blade, Harbinger found himself hesitating.

"How are you going to call yourself?"

He jumped at the sudden question. The girl had remained so silent and still that he had almost forgotten she was there. His power hadn't picked up the smallest hint about her presence - not the shuffling of feet, not the rustling of clothes, not even an involuntary huff or cough that could have reminded him that she was still there indeed, watching him from the doorway like a researcher watches over a potentially dangerous yet fascinating creature.

He didn't have to wonder about the reason why she refused to leave him alone. A watchdog. Harbinger wasn't so naive to believe his employer would accept his word as a guarantee of good intentions on his part. Not without taking some precautions. His history spoke for itself, and so did the knife and the sneering black mask still tucked inside his backpack.

"I was thinking something like 'Number Man'."

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Contessa blinking - the most human gesture she had made since they had been introduced. Her expression remained blank, yet he couldn't shake off the annoying feeling that, somewhere behind that emotionless façade, she was laughing at him.

"It's perfect," he went on, turning around to face her. "And fitting. Plain, unassuming. Intentionally ambiguous, it says something about the power without revealing too much."

The feeling didn't fade away. If anything, it grew stronger when Contessa titled her head to the side and cast him a curious look. They stared at each other for sixteen seconds and three milliseconds - twelve seconds more than Harbinger was comfortable with. Then, the moment ended abruptly as the girl straightened her back and spoke again.

"Alright then, _Number Man._ Make yourself at home, I'll come pick you up when the Doctor calls for you. She'll probably want me to show you around a bit before we start working."

Harbinger - no, the Number Man frowned behind the thin lenses of his glasses.  "Speaking of which, what are we working on, exactly?"

For a moment, he thought he saw Contessa smirking before she turned her back to him.

"That's the wrong question."

The sound of Contessa's shoes clacking against the tiled floor accompanied her exit. He let his gaze linger on the now-empty doorway for rather more than necessary, before he shook his head and shifted his attention back to the two items in his backpack. As he finally took them out, the Number Man made a mental note to add a safe to the list of requests he was going to present Doctor Mother first chance he got.


	2. Two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update was long overdue, exams and other WIPS got in the way. The next ones are already half-written, so they won't take as long (hopefully)!

Watching Contessa and Clairvoyant communicate was, for the lack of a better word, fascinating

The boy's inability to articulate his thoughts using his voice didn't keep him from being one of the most talkative residents of the Cauldron compound. What he couldn't put into words he expressed through something that wasn't quite sign language and not quite Morse Code as he hastily tapped his fingers on the smooth surface of the table. A mismatch of already existing codes and non-verbal languages he had invented from scratch, that would have been nothing short of impenetrable for anyone who wasn't Contessa. The Number Man had tried many times to compare it to known means of communications, elaborating what he saw through the filter of his power, but the results he obtained were always useless, nonsensical or incomplete. The Path didn't have the same problems in shattering the language barrier, he noticed, as he absentmindedly observed Contessa nod and ask the kid a brief question, to which he responded with yet another flurry of gestures.

Ever since his faulty trigger event, Clairvoyant had been left in Contessa's care, as the only one who was able to come in physical contact with him without experiencing the disorienting side-effects of his power. The Number Man was somewhat grateful for that. It finally allowed him some respite. He worked more freely, now, without the ever-present feeling of a pair of eyes fixed on his back, watching his every move. To be fair, her presence didn't bother him as much as it used to in the beginning. He had gotten used to it, after a while. So much so that Contessa's company, from a reality he begrudgingly accepted, had grown to become something that almost felt amiss when he realised she wasn't tailing him at all times anymore.

He was hesitant to call theirs a _friendship_. Even in the good days, there was always an odd kind of underlying tension that felt like it could either snap at any moment or disperse suddenly, with no harm done. More like a partnership of sorts, that worked as as long as they both refrained from getting on the other's nerves with the aid of their respective abilities.

He didn't even realise he had been lingering on the doorway, lost in thought, until Contessa's eyes shifted up towards him.

"Look at you," she said. "The most dangerous accountant I've ever seen."

The most distinctive thing about Contessa, besides the unnerving precognitive abilities, was her _lack of._ Lack of evident weak spots, lack of regular sleep patterns, lack of appropriate human reactions. Most people would have grinned as they uttered something so clearly meant to be a teasing remark, or at least smiled to signal the recipient not to take it too seriously. Contessa did no such thing. She just kept staring at him, her playful intent discernible only thanks to a subtle change in the tone of her voice.

"I shouldn't have told you about my side project," the Number Man huffed, adjusting the collar of his white shirt.

As ridiculous as it sounded, he had remained oblivious to the most straightforward application for his powers until Doctor Mother had encouraged him to seek an alternative occupation to keep himself busy, whenever the testing didn't require his services. An occupation that possibly didn't entail murder or maiming of any kind, she had made sure to remind him, as if he had any desire to return to _that_ kind of life after all the effort he had put into detaching himself from it.

All things considered, accounting wasn't that bad. In fact, it wasn't bad at all. He had been quick to discover how poorly a lot of non-Thinker supervillains fared when it came to managing their own finances and how pleased they were to know there was someone willing to take care of it on their behalf. The fact that none of them would notice if he transferred a percentage on Cauldron's several encrypted bank accounts was only a plus.

"Don't blame yourself, I would have found out about it anyways."

The fact that she was right didn't make it any less irritating. For the sake of his sanity, the Number Man decided to ignore the comment and move onto the reason for his visit.

"I wanted to exchange a few words with you." Then, almost as an afterthought, he added: "If you don't mind."

His old self would have cringed at the word choice. One lifetime ago, saying something so casually pretentious would have no doubt earned him a great deal of snickering from his companions. Some of the Doctor's customary politeness had rubbed off on him, it seemed.

Contessa nodded. "I don't mind."

She whispered something he couldn't quite catch to Clairvoyant, who got up from his seat and scurried out of the room. She waited for the echo of the kid's hurried steps to fade, before she gestured him to come closer. Instead of seating himself on one of the chairs that stood empty around the conference table, he settled for resting his back against the edge of the table itself.

"I was thinking about redesigning some areas of the compound," he began. "We haven't had any major security breaches, yet, but it's a possibility we must take into account. Some of the deviants could very well tear the building apart if they happened to lash out in the wrong places. I've already sketched a blueprint, the renovations shouldn't take more than a week to complete."

"I suppose you already asked the Doctor. And she said no."

"I was hoping you could maybe talk to her?" The Number Man tried. "I know she trusts your judgement above anyone else's, it shouldn't be difficult for you to convince her."

"The thing is," she explained. "I told her to refuse your proposition. I understand your concern, but changing the structure of the building now wouldn't mean anything in the long run."

"And you know this because..."

"Yes."

Ah, the Path. In the Number Man's imagination, the Path to Victory existed as an annoying, all-powerful entity that governed Contessa's choices in some form or another. Was it a voice in her head telling her what to do? Was it a glowing trail only she could see that lead her to the accomplishment of her current objective? Contessa had never cared to elaborate on that, in spite of his insistent questioning, and in the end he had stopped asking. Which didn't mean he was willing to accept it as a dismissive answer to every objection he had to her behaviour.

The Number Man sighed. "Do you ever do something without the Path telling you to?"

The question was still lingering in the air between them when he noticed a shift in Contessa's demeanour. Maybe it was a trick of the bright neon lights illuminating their surroundings, but for the briefest of moments he really did have the impression that her shoulder had tensed, as if she was fighting off the urge to snap back at him. Or to punch him in the face, more likely.

"Wrong question," she said eventually. "You don't understand." Her eyes weren't on him anymore, they were fixed on some distant point on the opposite wall, as if she was staring at something only she could see. Maybe the truth wasn't that far off.

"No, I don't," he agreed. "Maybe I would, if someone bothered to tell me what we are working towards. The experiments we are conducting - they're interesting, I won't lie. But the percentage of failures over successes would have persuaded anyone else to give up. The kid who was here five minutes ago had his eyes burned out and still we are nowhere near our final goal - whatever that is!"

Contessa listened to his monologue in silence, now looking back at him as one looks at a misbehaving child. "Something tells me you're not bothered by a child getting hurt, as much as by the Doctor and I not trusting you enough to give you all the details. You were here first, yet everyone else seems to know more than you do and it just doesn't sit well with you, does it?"

No one likes having their feelings spelled out in such a cruel, blunt fashion. Especially if, like the Number Man, they have a rather complicated relationship with feelings to begin with. He straightened his back. Mirroring his movement, Contessa stood from her chair.

They glared at each other, two animals waiting for the smallest provocation to jump at each other's throats. The old habit of scanning for a weakness took over, the vectors floating at the edge of his vision pointing at this or that pressure point. His power knew where to strike. His common sense knew that he would end up dead - or severely bruised if he tried anything. It was a battle he had lost before it even began and the knowledge did nothing but fuel his frustration.

Before he could do or say anything else, Contessa took hold of his forearm and twisted it. It was painful, but the hold wasn't tight enough to bruise - yet. The Number Man knew for experience that bones could break when sufficient pressure was applied and he wouldn't have put it out of the Path's scope to suggest her just where and with how much force to press down for his wrist to snap. The possibility was enough to have him hesitate.

"Do you remember what you saw when you triggered?"

The Number Man frowned. It took his brain a few moments to wrap around the abrupt change of subject. Contessa's question was rhetorical. It had to be. How could he have forgotten? The mere mention of his trigger event awakened the memory. He could still see it, as clearly as the day it had appeared before him. A being so far off his comprehension that he had felt physically ill staring at it for more than a second. So convoluted in its complexity that he couldn't for the life of him tell what it was or what its intentions were. And when it had disappeared, letting the world around him come into focus once again, he had been left with the unsettling impression that what he had witnessed wasn't necessarily benevolent or hostile, but that it was very much _alive_.

The Number Man felt unsure saying it out loud. It was foolish - more than that, it was suicidal. And yet it wasn't any more foolish than administering vial after vial of concentrated powers to dozens of subjects in the hopes that at least one of them would survive. "Are we fighting against that thing?"

"I believe you can fill in the blanks by yourself," Contessa let go of his arm. He let it fall by his side.

The Number Man found his anger subsiding, replaced by disbelief, then by another dozen or so questions he already knew Contessa would find incredibly annoying. If she even graced him with a proper answer. "Alexandria and the others, do they--"

"Know?" Contessa anticipated him. "No, not really. We let them believe what they want to believe. It's easier that way."

"Which makes me the only one privy to this information, besides you and the Doctor," he concluded.

"You see?" For the first time since he had known her, something resembling a genuine smile appeared on her lips. "I do trust you."

The Number Man opened his mouth to say something, only to find himself at a loss for words.

"If you have any more questions, I'll be happy to answer," she went on, unfazed by his hesitation. "Provided they're the right ones."

"And how should I know?"

The look Contessa gave him then persuaded him to let the matter drop. At least for the time being.

 


	3. Three.

"Have some faith, will you?"

The Number Man scoffed at people who claimed he didn't believe in anything only because he rejected the ridiculous idea of an all-seeing God looking down on humanity from the clouds. People tended to get upset when someone told them that. In the same way they did when you tried to explain that emotions are but chemical reactions in our brains and that there is no such thing as luck, bad or good as it might be. But to say he didn't believe in anything - oh, that was preposterous!

In fact, he believed in quite a lot of things. He believed in numbers in their purest forms, in the benefits of good organisation and careful planning, in the inherent capacity of the stock market to regulate itself. And, against better judgement, he believed in the Path.

Most of the times, at least. Admittedly, things like rushing to answer a distress call from the laboratory only to find yourself knocked out and tied to a chair tended to put your faith at a test.

"I was only wondering if you had a plan or if you were making one up on the go."

He could almost feel Contessa making a show of rolling her eyes behind his back. She didn't reply to his accusation, though, which was just as well. In the increasing likelihood of his early demise by the hand rampaging test subject, he would have hated to leave the cruel Earth with unfinished business. He might as well start with letting Contessa know exactly what had been nagging him for a while, now.

"I'm expected to follow your dispositions blindly - fine. I understand," he went on. "I really do. I see why the Doctor isn't looking forward to letting me make important decisions without running them by the two of you first. I mean, I killed my last employer myself. But that was six years, seven months and two days ago, mind you. I think the time has come for Cauldron to put its faith in me."

His short tirade was met with silence. If he had thought to have struck a chord in his colleague's heart with his speech, his hopes were shattered as soon as Contessa spoke up again. "You're keeping count?"

The Number Man was rather annoyed by the fact that, bound and restrained back to back as they were, it was impossible for Contessa to see the expression of utter disappointment on his face. "You know I can't _not_ keep count. It's automatic."

All of a sudden, Contessa seemed to find his last confession more interesting than anything else in the small, badly lit testing room. Even more interesting that the fact that their latest subject was most likely wandering around the compound, wreaking havoc wherever he went thanks to a brand-new set of powers he still couldn't control. "When was the last time we conducted a successful testing?"

As expected, his power quipped in as soon as the concept of 'the last successful testing' formed in his mind. "A month and twenty-four days."

"Last time Rebecca ate the last biscuit and left the empty wrap in the cupboard?"

"That's a trick question, we both know it was David," the Number Man paused. "Which is not the point I was trying to make, by the way. The point is, I'm expected to go along with the first path you choose because--"

"Second."

"I'm sorry?"

"Second path," Contessa clarified. "I scrapped the first one because it entailed tricking the subject into killing you and using it as a distraction."

Well, that was new. Not the blunt implication that sending others to their death wasn't out of the scope of her abilities, no, he had had plenty of chances to witness the ruthless nature of the Path to Victory. What he wasn't familiar with was the unprecedented admission that Contessa _wasn't_ willing to sacrifice him to the altar of the greater good, not even if it meant preventing the catastrophic destruction of everything she and the Doctor had been working for in the last years.

"You wouldn't let me die here if it meant appeasing the Path?" He asked, trying and failing to hide his surprise. "Why?"

Strangers, friends, co-workers - they were all pawns of a game she was playing against the universe, and they had no say in the way she might use them to forward her cause. Whatever camaraderie they had built in years of working, of _killing_ together, was bound to be instrumental in the realisation of some convoluted plan. It would be foolish to think otherwise. Still, he appreciated her sincerity. It gave him the passing illusion that her reluctance to sacrifice his life might have stemmed from some kind of fondness she had for him. A fondness which was somewhat reciprocated, even if he would have admitted it only under painful, drawn out physical torture. 

He felt Contessa let out a long, exasperated huff of breath. "That's the wrong question."

For once, the Number Man was inclined to agree. Not necessarily wrong, but no doubt a question for another time.

He forced himself to concentrate on more pressing matters. Which was more easily said than done - his head still ached from the blow that had knocked him out, and it was getting more and more difficult to ignore the way his wrists were restrained in a rather uncomfortable position by an excessive amount of duct tape. To add insult to injury, his glasses had slid halfway down his nose. He tried to shake his head to adjust them, but to little avail. The four walls surrounding him felt even more suffocating when anything further than three feet was reduced to a confused blur of greys and blinding whites.

He tested the restraints. They didn't budge. Defeated, he let his head drop. The world around him went eerily silent. Whatever his intentions were, the escaped subject had left their level and made his way upwards. Or downwards, where the cells containing the results of Cauldron's previous experiments stood all lined up behind a steel security door. It had been conceived with the specific purpose to make reaching the lower floors of the compound as difficult as possible for anyone who didn't possess the right code. Which didn't mean it could prevent a sufficiently angry deviant from tearing down the wall altogether.

Just as he was elaborating the probabilities of him and Contessa having to deal with a mass breakout versus the entire building collapsing on their heads, his senses picked up something. Someone moving on the other side of the door, inching closer and closer. He turned to the side, as much as his current position allowed.

"Did you hear that?"

Contessa hummed in affirmation. "There she is."

The Number Man didn't have time to ask her who she was talking about, exactly, before a gust of cool air filtered through the narrow slit under the closed door. It seemed to blow around the room, then shoot upwards towards the ceiling. He tilted his head up. Barring the blinking neon lights that illuminated the room, there was nothing there. Except maybe...

The Number Man squinted. No, the inconsistency he had noticed had nothing to do with his weak vision. The particles of dust floating under the artificial lighting didn't settle where they should have. Their trajectory was interrupted, diverted, as if they were pushed aside and forced to collect around a vaguely human shape. In the blink of an eye, his mind supplied the rest of the information about what - or rather, _who_ he was looking at.

Subject zero-fifty-five. Seemingly unlimited power and range of action at the price of a physical body. Not unlike Clairvoyant and Doormaker, she had been brought to Cauldron at a too young age to sustain the strain presented by the testing process. The vial had taken its toll on her, turning her into the invisible, intangible entity she was now. Once the transformation had been complete, she had surprised everyone by undertaking the strenuous task of managing the entire compound of her own free will. Still, it felt like a too-good-to-be-true coincidence that she decided to show up at the time they needed her the most.

"I had a few words with her earlier this morning. Let's say we reached a mutual agreement," Contessa responded to his unspoken question. "Also, she would be very grateful if you referred to her as the Custodian. It's the name she chose for herself."

The entity moved out of his field of vision, so that he was left listening to Contessa's one-sided conversation with her. Or not so one-sided after all. To each question, the Custodian answered in her own fashion.

"Do you think you can stall him until we get out of here?"

1.045 seconds of silence. The noise of paper shuffling somewhere.

"What about the Doctor, is she safe?"

Silence again. 2.134 seconds. The noise repeated, more insistent this time.

"Perfect. Now, can you please pass that scalpel over there to my colleague? He knows what to do with it."

The appearance of the instrument was anticipated by the faint sound of metal scraping on the tiled floor. Pushed by an invisible force, the scalpel then slipped under the chair and lifted up in the air just high enough for him to grasp it. Once his fingers closed around the handle, the Custodian left them as swiftly as she had appeared.

It took some time for the Number Man to be able to cut through the sticky material with just one hand and no visual cues to help him. His co-worker's faith wasn't misplaced, though, as thanks to an amazing feat of contortionism and just a pinch of sheer desperation he managed to cut his wrists free and finally, finally get out of the damned chair.

 After that, slicing through Contessa's own restraints was child's play. As soon as she was back on her feet, she gestured at him to give her the scalpel. He tossed it at her, with just enough force to have it land in her extended hand. The disappeared up the sleeve of her suit jacket.

"Wait, give me one second!"

Contessa's voice reached him when he was already on his way to the corridor. He stopped in his tracks, casting her a glance over his shoulder. She still stood in the middle of the room, eyes darting here and there as if she was looking for something. She muttered unintelligible words to herself.

"We don't have _one second_ , Contessa, we need to--"

His objection was interrupted by an exclamation of triumph from his co-worker. "Hah!"

Contessa ducked under an upturned desk and remerged with something in her right hand. Her black fedora, dusty and a little worse for wear but otherwise intact. She brushed the dirt away with a quick stroke of her hand and returned it to its rightful place, on top of her head.

"Let me guess," the Number Man later said, as they ran down the white hallways of the compound. "your hat is somehow connected to one of your future paths, that's why you can't afford to lose it."

Contessa considered his theory for a while.

"Interesting, but no." she admitted. "I just like how it looks."

In spite of his best efforts, the Number Man couldn't conceal the disbelief that crossed his features. He had the short-lived impression that Contessa was going to start laughing at him, but she was quick to look away. When her eyes shifted back on him, however, she was already back to her usual unreadable expression.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic might as well be called "The Number Man actually kinda likes Contessa but can't fucking stand the Path and all that it entails".


	4. Four.

From an outside perspective, he must have looked like any other tired businessman enjoying a drink at the bar, sitting by the counter with his trusty briefcase on the floor propped against the legs of his chair. It wasn't that far from the truth, really. It just so happened that the business he was conducting entailed the illegal and very much morally reprehensible sale of superpowers to people who could afford them and his briefcase contained an impressive amount of cash that had just been traded for said concentrated superpowers.

The Number Man let his vision pan around the room. As he didn't pick up anything that could be of interest, he went back to sipping his drink. A part of his brain registering it as a 70% red wine and 30% water, but he knew better than raising a fuss.

Years of flying under the radar had taught him that disappearing into the crowd was a more useful way of concealing his real intent than lurking in the shadows, hiding in dark corners and empty alleyways like a common criminal. The old adage was true - the best hiding place is often in plain sight. So he had armoured himself in plain clothes and even plainer demeanour, turning himself into the very picture of mediocrity. There was no better demonstration of his camouflaging skills than the fact that he had spent little less than a full hour at the counter, waiting for his colleague to show up, and none of the patrons crowding the venue had spared him a second glance.

A sudden movement at the corner of his eye, and there she was perched on the seat next to his.

"You're late," he told her.

"I was...detained," was the simple justification.

The Number Man refrained from inquiring. Whether Contessa was telling the truth and she had been side-tracked by one of her numerous paths, or she just thought she could spare herself the trouble of attending yet another meeting with a client, it didn't matter much.

That was the thing about the Path; if Contessa wanted you to believe her lies it would make sure you did. And if you somehow managed to see right through them, chances were it was only so that she could cover up something else. It went round and round and, try as you might, you could never outsmart it. The very fact that he was doubting her sincerity now meant she probably had some use for his suspicion, whatever it might be.

With one fluid motion, Contessa snatched the glass from his hands. The Number Man barely noticed the disappearance of the last few sips of wine. Not much of a loss. She set it back on the wooden counter, empty. "You don't need my assistance to carry out a simple negotiation. I trust everything went well?"

"Nothing you need to be worried about," He said. Then, remembering the client's reaction at the mention of paring him up with someone to speed things up, he added: "At first he was outraged - there's no other way to describe it - when I suggested we should find him a partner to help him along. I talked some sense into him."

"The vials?"

"Delivered. Two of them, as requested. Our client seemed satisfied, he left in a hurry as soon as the deal was sealed," he shifted in his chair so he could look directly at his co-worker. "A curious fellow, it's a pity you missed him."

"I feel like we'll hear from him again soon enough," Contessa stared right back at him when she spoke. A feeling from Contessa meant a very high chance - if not absolute certainty, that the event in question would occur. The Number Man found himself looking forward to witnessing how Cauldron's new associate fared, when confronted with someone who was always two steps ahead. Which was a metaphor, of course. Anyone who spent enough time around Contessa knew she was actually _a hundred_ steps ahead.

"But before I meet him in person," she went on. "I want to know what you think of him."

"I checked his bank records before the meeting and my early suspicions were confirmed. It's not the money he lacks. I'm thinking recognition. He wants to be praised for his efforts," he paused. Contessa's expectant look pushed him to continue. "His abilities are interesting, it's hard to tell if his obsessive-compulsive disorder stems from them or is just exacerbated by them. And of course, he always thinks he's the smartest person in the room. A regrettable flaw of most Thinkers."

Contessa was quick to come back at him on his last remark. "You _are_ a Thinker."

"So are you," he pointed out. "Which is why I said 'most'."

Contessa let out something between a huff and suppressed chuckle. Such a natural and unexpected manifestation of her feelings, even if said feeling was just mild amusement, had the Number Man doing a double take. Noticing his surprise, she arched an eyebrow at him. He just dismissed it with a wave of his hand.

A comfortable silence fell between them. While Contessa turned away to look at the other patrons, much like he had been doing before she showed up, his eyes settled on her instead. He had long before abandoned any hope of understanding what was going on inside her head, which didn't mean he found the close observation of his colleague and her whims any less fascinating. He could look at her and let his mind wander. Where he saw figures dancing around people, predicting their every movement, what did she see exactly?

"I can hear you thinking. Ask away."

At the sound of her voice, he looked away as if he had just been caught red handed. _Stupid_ he scolded himself, Contessa was bound to have sensed his eyes on him anyway.

"It's just..." the Number Man began, slowly, letting his doubts translate into words. "We've dealt with the opposite in the past, people who had no idea of how to capitalise on their potential. But this Accord has...quite a lot of ideas. Ambitious ones. He's convinced he'll be able to solve all problems of modern society given enough resources. World hunger, religious conflicts in the Middle East, global warming. Noble goals, of course, but I feel like world hunger will be the last of our problems when the day comes. What use do we have of him?"

"Favours, mostly," she said. "And a unique outlook on our situation, courtesy of his power. If your assessment is correct, we start by flattering him. We provide him with what he needs. Powers and a business partner, for the time being. Eventually, he'll be persuaded to play by our rules."

She seemed on the verge of adding something else, but she suddenly stopped.

"I almost forget," the Number Man heard her say. He turned to face her her only to see her digging out something from the left pocket of her slacks. "Happy anniversary."

He had hardly any time to process what she had said, that his power register as small object being thrown his way at roughly 10mph. What he moved instinctively to catch with both his hands turned out to be a wristwatch. A quite expensive one, by the look of it. He cast Contessa a puzzled glance from behind his glasses.

"How did you know?"

Instead of answering, she offered him an unimpressed look. He could see it in her eyes that he had just asked yet another wrong question. "I think standard practice when receiving a gift is saying 'thank you, you shouldn't have'."

Now, there were many, many more questions the Number Man could have asked.

Like how did she know his old wristwatch had shattered when an enraged test subject had lashed out against the Doctor and he had to step in between them? How did she know he had been meaning to replace it for a month, now, but always kept forgetting? How did she know he was partial to dark brown leather?

All of them legitimate, all of them wrong. Because the answer was one and the same and he already knew it. So he didn't ask. Instead, he did the only sensible thing one can do when confronted with something too big or too complicated to be understood. Resign himself to acceptance.

"If you really must know, I can tell you where I got it. A game of poker, I won it fair and square."

The Number Man could picture it all too well. The smug face of the man who had thought inviting a strange woman to play a hand of poker with his friends would be a good idea. And his subsequent expression full of disbelief when the stranger effortlessly cleared the table.

"Had you ever played poker before?" He wondered out loud, as he rolled up his shirtsleeve and donned his present which, to no one's surprise, fit the size of his wrist perfectly.

Contessa shrugged. "Beginner's luck, I guess."

The Number Man laughed. "Sure."

He stopped a waitress on her way to a nearby table and asked for two glasses of champagne. Contessa had started the celebrations, it would have been rude of him to cut them short. His request was met with a nod and a promise to return as soon as she was done with the half-drunk patrons chanting a poor rendition of _For He's a Jolly Good Fellow_ somewhere on the other side of the room.

"You know, most people don't celebrate trigger event anniversaries." It was nothing but an innocent musing, and he almost expected Contessa to deliver another witty comeback but she didn't. Instead, she remained silent, eyebrows slightly furrowed. Almost thoughtful.

"I hope I haven't upset you," she said after a while.

"No, I..." the Number Man hesitated. He struggled to give a name or even a description of what he felt whenever he caught himself thinking back about that fateful day. It wasn't all _good_ , but the thought of what would have happened if he didn't trigger instead was much more upsetting than the alternative. "I think you would already know if you did."

There was change in Contessa's expression. One moment she was worrying over a possible faux pas, the next she had regained all of her usual confidence. "You criticize our client for his attitude," she said. "And yet here you are, thinking I spend all my time inside your head. Talk about egomania."

Their banter was cut short by the waitress setting the two glasses of champagne in front of them with an 'enjoy'. Contessa and the Number Man thanked her in perfect unison.

"What are we toasting to?" She asked, reaching out for one of the glasses and raising to eye level. She examined the liquid inside as if she had never seen champagne before, or she suspected it to be somehow poisoned.

He mirrored her by raising his own glass. "I was going to say to a brighter future, but optimism has never saved anyone's life. I guess we'll be lucky enough if we manage to survive whatever we're preparing for."

"To survival, then."

The Number Man smiled. "To survival."

The glasses clinked together.

A couple of refills and some light-hearted conversation later, the Number Man's eyes fell on his new watch. "We still have one hour and forty-three minutes before the Doctor starts looking for us. Care for a stroll?"

"Why not."

It didn't matter if the proposition had come from him, as soon as she accepted it Contessa was quick to take the lead. She produced a note from the inner pocket of her suit jacket and put it on the counter, under the now-empty glass. A moment later, she was already crossing the room and slipping out of a back door, with the Number Man in tow.

The city lights shone down on them as they walked aimlessly down the streets of Boston. Shoulder to shoulder, sometimes brushing against one another when either of them was forced to make way for a passer-by hurrying in the opposite direction. They didn't have a specific destination in mind - or maybe they had and Contessa had just refrained from telling him. The Number Man found that he really didn't mind.


	5. Five.

Twenty-three milliseconds. All it had taken for the Stranger to appear from somewhere within his blind side and take aim. She had succeeded in pulling the trigger twice before a bullet from the Number Man's weapon had lodged itself between her eyes, sending her falling back into the lifeless pile of limbs of her fallen teammates.

Twenty-three milliseconds and two shots, one of which hit home. The Number Man realised all too late just how bad it was, when walking away from the scene proved to be more complicated than he had anticipated. He tried to ignore it, keep walking towards the meeting spot he and his co-worker had agreed upon, but there was only so much sheer determination could do. Sooner or later, his leg had to give.

And it did. His back hit the brick wall behind him. Next thing he knew, he was sitting down on the ground. His gun met the pavement with a dull sound, drowned by the loud rumble of thunder overhead.

Never had he allowed himself to believe in the possibility of living a long, uneventful life and dying of old age in his bed surrounded by family and friends. It was a luxury no parahuman could afford. Still, there was a fundamental difference between the prospect of dying some ten or fifteen years down the line, and coming face to face with the reality that he was going to die at thirty-two instead, slumped against the dirty wall of a back alley with a bullet in his leg.

He tentatively brushed his thigh, forcing himself to bite back a hiss of pain. When he pulled his hand away, fresh blood was dripping from his fingertips. Then, he did something hadn't done in a very long time. He cursed. "Fuck!"

The Number Man wasn't one for swearing. He found it unnecessary at best, and dreadfully impolite at worst. At that juncture, however, he felt like the circumstances warranted it.

Like it did every time it was left unattended, his power shifted to autopilot and started presenting him with dozens of trivial data about his surroundings, none of which promised to help him out of his predicament. It started with the width of the alley he had repaired to, went on to tell him the outdoor temperature according to both the Celsius and Fahrenheit scale, and then described him the exact speed of the cold wind blowing through the buildings.

The Number Man blinked once, twice, trying to banish the useless information to a secluded corner of his mind. His vision was already starting to fog. Maybe it was just his glasses or maybe it was the sheer amount of rainwater falling down on him from above, soaking his suit and making his hair stick to his forehead. He was tangentially aware of his breathing speeding up, his heartbeat picking up pace and...no, focus. He needed to focus.

_Let's try something else_. Probabilities had never been his forte - too unpredictable to be trusted - but a quick estimate told him the the probabilities that he wouldn't wake up if he blacked out right there and then were high. Alarmingly high, in fact. He compared the average quantity of blood in a healthy man's body with the speed his own was pouring out from the bullet wound. The results weren't promising. He closed his eyes, letting out a shaky breath.

"You got shot," a familiar voice said. It wasn't a question.

Throughout the years, he had gotten used to Contessa's penchant for stating rather than asking. It was one of the many things about her that tended to unsettle people and, if he had to be completely honest with himself, he did find it just a little bit annoying. This time, though, annoyance was nothing compared to the relief that came with hearing the sound of her voice.

When he opened his eyes he was greeted with the sight of Contessa standing in front of him, head tilted to the side to prevent her damp hair from falling in her face. The calm expression she was wearing should have reassured him. Then again, it was rather difficult to tell her genuine reactions apart from when they were somewhat diluted by her power. It wouldn't be a stretch to imagine she had come up with a small path for the sole purpose of appearing unfazed by his current state. 

"I got distracted for a moment," he admitted, almost cringing at how weak his voice came out. "And then the choice was between stomach and leg. It was no-brainer."

Without a word, Contessa kneeled in front of him, uncaring for the mixture of blood and water that immediately started seeping through the fabric of her black trousers. Suppressing an instinctive wince, the Number Man let her put her gloved hand on his thigh and she started to inspect the wound.

"Am I going to die?" The question was meant as a joke, but the effect was ruined by the grimace that took over his features when Contessa turned his leg to the side to have a better look.

"Yes," she answered automatically.

Contessa hesitated for a brief moment and looked up. The Number Man followed her gaze. Where he saw nothing but raindrops, he hoped Contessa was reading the solution that would save him from an untimely demise.

"I know, wrong question," he exhaled. "I forgot the Path has a terrible sense of humour."

Contessa looked back at him. "I guess the right question is: Am I going to die in the upcoming half an hour?"

"And the answer is...?"

"No, if I manage to get the bullet out and stop the bleeding."

The blade of a stiletto knife glinted in the half-darkness. The Number Man braced himself as well as he could. He knew what was coming would be rather unpleasant - which, of course, was a euphemism that stood for 'excruciatingly painful'.

Contessa could have said anything to reassure him and he would have trusted her blindly. She could have sugar-coated the pill to have him relax a little before she got to work and it would have been so, so easy. Her power was good like that. You couldn't tell she was lying until it was too late. This time, though, there was no merciful lie as she began to dig the bullet out of his flesh.

The whole process was messy, to say the least. For the first time since he could remember, the Number Man found himself doubting his own power when it told him that his colleague had spent no more than five minutes working at his injured leg, when he felt like the procedure was taking up an whole eternity instead. More than once he had to grab Contessa's wrist to signal her to give him a moment of respite, let him catch his breath.

Contessa talked him through it. While he supposed it was nothing more than the Path suggesting her a way keep him awake and alert, he found himself clinging to the sound of her voice as the knife sliced through his flesh, making his head spin and his vision become fuzzy at the edges. Whenever his answers weren't coherent with her questions, Contessa made sure to pressure him until he tried harder to put his thoughts in order and was finally able to respond accordingly.

At the end of the fifth minute, the bullet lay in a puddle on the dirty concrete and Contessa's belt was tied tight around his thigh to prevent it from bleeding further. A temporary measure until they found a safe place to open a portal and make it back to the compound.

"Can you stand?" She asked.

The Number Man nodded. Nevertheless, it took a couple of tries to persuade his leg to sustain his weight long enough for him to get on his feet. Contessa helpfully passed an arm around his waist and let him loop his own around her shoulders, so that he could lean against her. It was a practiced movement, sleek and precise as if they were executing a well-rehearsed routine. They had performed the very same gestures for one another too many times to count, to the point that it came natural to both even without relying on their powers.

"Did you know..." his breath was cut off by a sudden stab of pain. He adjusted his stance before starting over. "Did you know they have a nickname for us? They call us ‘The Boogeymen’."

"They?"

"Those who have a reason to fear us, I suppose."

Contessa made a curious face, the corner of her lips twitching slightly. It lasted only a split second, but experience had taught him that it was her way to express amusement in lieu of a letting out a proper laugh. She found it funny. He mustered a little smile in return, grateful for the momentary break in the tension that hung heavy in the air between them.

"I'm going to ask Doormaker to open a portal here, so we can..." she trailed off. Judging from the way she turned her head towards the entrance of the alley, something else must have caught her attention.

The Number Man thought he heard something in the distance, over the noise of the pouring rain. It didn't take him long to recognise it. Sirens, getting closer.

"The PRT," he murmured. "Someone who heard the gunshots must have alerted them. Rebecca knew we would be working on this side of town, why didn't she--"

"It wasn't her decision," Contessa interrupted him. "It's a quick response team, they're not going to bother Director Costa-Brown for a simple shootout."

They ducked behind a corner, Contessa still supporting him to keep him from putting too much strain on the injury. He stumbled when she suddenly left his side, only to be pulled through a door and into a pitch-black room.

Contessa made sure that he was resting his back against the doorframe, before the walked away in search of the light switch, which she found soon enough. After a couple of flickers, the small room was illuminated by a single lightbulb. The Number Man squinted, his eyes struggling to get accustomed to the brightness. From what he could now grasp of his surroundings, it was probably an old storage room, with empty shelves and cardboard boxes scattered here and there.

"Normally I would wait for the coast to be clear," she said, as she started to line the metal shelves on against the back wall and out of the way to make some space for Doormaker's portal. Outside, the heavy footsteps and distant shouts of the PRT officers were approaching. "But we're already late on the schedule. Besides, the sooner you're back to base the better. I'll come back to deal with the eventual witnesses later."

Contessa had her back turned to him, but he could see it anyway. A crack in her flawless composure. Here movements as she moved things out of the way to make space for the portal where quick, almost nervous. Though the tone of her voice hadn't changed much, her sentences were longer, quicker, a drastic difference from her usual conciseness.

Whether the Path was acting with some delay or she had forgone the path to hide her feelings entirely in favour of focusing on more important matters, there was no way to tell. What the Number Man could tell, was that she was worried.

She couldn't possibly be worried about a confrontation with the PRT and, despite the incident, their mission had been carried out without a hitch. That left one possibility - that she was worried about _him_. Realisation washed over him, leaving him with a sense of unease creeping up his back. The reminder that after all she wasn't immune to such typically human emotions such as fear and worry was so jarring that for a long while the Number Man found himself at a loss. It gave Contessa the time to summon a portal leading back to the Cauldron compound, right in the centre of the room.

When he eventually came back to himself, he took one step forward. He regretted it the instant his wounded leg almost bucked under him. He was forced to abort his plan of going any further to avoid losing his balance. It didn't matter. Contessa was close enough for him to rest a hand on her shoulder. She looked up at him with something that resembled surprise in her eyes.

"I'm alright," he told her. "Or I will be, as soon as we're back to base and we find someone who can patch me up. Ask the Path if you don't believe me."

He squeezed her shoulder in a way that he hoped would come off as reassuring. Contessa stared at him for a long time. The Number Man had the impression that she was on the verge of saying something, multiple times, yet she never broke the silence.

 "Let's get you out of here," was what she settled for, in the end.

Her arm was soon back around his waist, to help him close the short distance that separated them from the glowing portal. They stepped together through it, into the white halls awaiting them on the other side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, won’t you look at that! Contessa seems to have soft spot for the nerd after all…What a totally unforeseen turn of events, amirite?


	6. And One.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another incredibly late update but hey, it was warm outside and the beach was literally calling for me. Can you blame me? 
> 
> Alternative chapter title: “The Path Is Bad At Feelings but Contessa and Number Man Are Possibly Even Worse”.

 

 

The draft that always accompanied the opening of a portal alerted the Number Man of an imminent visit. One he hadn't been planning, but to which he wasn't really going to object. There was only one person who had enough disregard for his privacy to walk through a portal directly into his office, anyway.

"She ambushed me. Again."

The statement was followed by a rustling sound. The Number Man identified it as the sound fabric produces when a jacket is shrugged off and subsequently throw onto his desk. Without him asking it to, his power started to elaborate the data detailing the exact distance Contessa was performing said actions from. The results mingled with the figures glowing on the screen in front of him. He stopped typing, hands hovering over the keyboard.

"The target?"

"Dealt with, but it doesn't matter now. She wasn't supposed to be there."

No need for further clarification. He was well aware of who She was - the winged abomination soaring the skies of Earth Bet and who knew how many other universes, spreading chaos and panic in her wake. The only foe Contessa couldn't seem to conquer, much to her frustration.

"Unpredictability is part of her nature, I'm afraid," the Number Man said, removing his glasses to rub them with the hem of his light sweater.

"She had been spotted yesterday hovering over Atlanta. You said you were almost sure she couldn't cover more than 2000 miles in a single day," was the immediate rebuttal.

Yet another sound - shoes being kicked off and left tumbling on the floor.

"With particular emphasis on 'almost', I recall. I'm not even surprised to discover that she can defy simple laws of physics. I can take another look at the footage and revise my calculations, if you want." When every last smudge had been wiped away from the lenses, he put them back on.

This time, the answer was somewhere between a displeased huff and a groan. It persuaded him to tilt his head and cast her a glance from over his shoulder. With her dark hair in complete disarray, the once-pristine white shirt halfway out of her slacks and what looked very much like a stain of dried blood at the corner of her mouth, Contessa was the embodiment of a Very Bad Day.

The Number Man recognised all the warning signs, from the slight crease in her forehead, to the way her eyes darted from one point of the room to the other, as if she was waiting for an unseen threat to jump out at any moment. He took the hint.

"I need a cup of coffee," he closed his laptop. "You look like you could use one too."

The offer remained implied yet, when he left the office through the main door, he sensed Contessa trailing behind him. She wasn't bothering to hide her presence, as she followed him down the corridor.

Albeit not as flawless as Contessa's Path to Victory, he did have a plan to deal with that kind of situation. A small Path of his own, if you will, he had mentally dubbed "The Simurgh Plan". He was somewhat proud of it. Four steps, straightforward, easy to carry out when needed. It had taken him a couple of years to perfect it, ever since the titular monster had first appeared over the heads of the citizens of Lausanne and Contessa had barged into his room in the middle of the night, with something in her eyes he had never seen before: fear.

In a way, the Simurgh was a giant, sentient reminder of her humanity buried under layers of overlapping paths. Always in motion, impossible to ignore. A reminder Contessa wasn't too happy with, if the state she was left in after every run-in with her was any indication.

But back to the Plan, now. Step one was preparing some coffee for the both of them. He could think about the remaining three steps later.

 

 

Hot drinks made Contessa more complacent. It was a conclusion he had reached after a long process of trial and error, at the end of which he had found out that a good old cup of tea or coffee was the most efficient way to put her in a better mood. Once the coffee was ready, it was time for step two. It involved getting Contessa to talk to him. The Number Man looked at her from where he was standing by the kitchen counter.

Perched barefoot on the edge of the table, the sleeves of her shirt rolled up, and a cup of steaming coffee in her hands, she looked more human than she ever did. That part of her was reserved for the days the Doctor was away on business calls, the Triumvirate travelled the States in search of civilians to protect and supervillains to smite, and the only presence in the compound was the silent, watchful eye of the Custodian. Days the Number Man found himself craving for, for some unspeakable reason he struggled to explain even to himself.

If there had been an ounce of morality left in him, he would have felt guilty in having to thank the cause of so much death and destruction for the selfish little pleasure of having Contessa all to himself, be it for just a few hours. Taking the first sip of coffee, which by then had gone lukewarm, he searched inside himself for a tell-tale sign that he was, in fact, still capable of anything resembling guilt or remorse. In finding none, he was relieved.

"Do you want to talk it over with me?"

Contessa didn't hear him. Or, more likely, she had chosen to ignore him. Her eyes were downcast, looking at her half empty coffee mug as if staring hard enough at the brown liquid would have granted her all the answers she was looking for.

"Please," The Number Man insisted. "Humour me."

Contessa raised her head, glancing at him the way you look at the obnoxious stranger who sits down beside you on the park bench and starts asking questions about your life. If he had been expecting a more forceful refusal, however, he was surprised to see that he was mistaken.

"Okay."

With no further prompting, she began to talk. "I was looking for the safest way to dispose of the target’s body, the Path had led me into an empty building nearby. When I mounted the stairs and exited on the roof, she was there. Not a single warning. After that, for every question I asked I only saw white. Fog. Nothing. Only the hum of the Simurgh's song in my head."

"How would you describe her when she approached you? Hostile?"

Contessa thought about it for a while, taking two sips of coffee in the meantime. Her eyebrows knitted together in the effort of making sense of what she had witnessed. "No, not hostile," she decided in the end. "She was watching me, as if she expected me to do something. She seemed...curious."

The Number Man scratched at his chin absentmindedly. "Perhaps she was just as surprised as you were? You say she ambushed you, but couldn't it be a coincidence?"

 "Three times in less than a month is a bit of a stretch for a coincidence. Since when do you believe in coincidences, anyway?"

"Fair enough," he conceded. "But I'm still convinced that there has to be a way to counter the effect. You just need to find a work-around, like you did with David."

Contessa shook her head. "David is a very simple creature in comparison. I don't know why his power interferes with the Path, but it's easy enough to bypass the issue. He's ruled by emotions and base instincts, like all human beings. Take that into account and you'll have a pretty good idea of how he will react to any given situation."

"I'm sure he'd be delighted to hear that," the Number Man smiled. Unfortunately, his attempt at easing the mood fell flat.

"It's an objective judgement of his character," Contessa said. "The Simurgh, she's...I don't even know _what_ she is and I'm starting to doubt I'll ever understand what she wants from me."

"Have you thought that maybe," he tried. "Maybe you're overthinking it?"

The glare Contessa shot him over the rim of her cup had him backtracking. Tread carefully, he reminded himself. The Simurgh might have numbed her connection with the Path, for the time being, but the ability to bite back was still very much in her power. And indeed, the following words struck home. "You of all people should know what it feels like to be unable to understand."

The Number Man swallowed hard. Banishing the memories from the days prior to his trigger event had become easier with time. From the impossible feat that it was in the beginning, it had grown to become little more than a minor nuisance. Still, the pictures that resurfaced unprompted at the back of his mind weren't any less unpleasant. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to--"

"Don't apologize. I know what you meant."

He was about to say something, but the words just wouldn’t come. He opted for silence instead.

Contessa didn't want his pity, nor anyone else's. They weren't much different, in that regard. What she needed was someone who nodded and listened as she talked, and hummed in agreement at the right moment. Someone she was comfortable spilling her heart out to - or what was left of it after over a decade of lying and cheating and murdering on Cauldron's behalf.

He needed to get back in track. His plan still had two steps and he would make the most of it. Starting with step three: finding something trivial to distract her with while she got re-accustomed to the Path.

Except Contessa seemed to have a plan of her own, now. "Why are you doing this?"

The question hit him like a punch in the gut. None of the pain associated with it, but all the confusion that comes with being suddenly attacked when you least expected it. Steps three and four of his little plan were thrown to the wind the moment Contessa posed it.

It was the Number Man's turn to look away. His eyes left his colleague's to stare at an indefinite point on the floor, a white tile among dozens of identical white tiles. Meeting her eyes for a single moment would have told her more than he was willing to reveal to her just yet. "I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific."

"This," she repeated, waving her hand in a gesture that was meant to encompass the entirety of room, as well as all the effort he had put into attempting to improve her mood so far. "Why?"

"I take the Path isn't forthcoming?"

"I tried asking. The answer isn't as straightforward as I'd like it to be."

The Number Man opened his mouth, but before a single word could come out Contessa held up one hand to stop him. "You're about to explain it with a metaphor on arithmetics. Don't."

Had he been a little less tense, the Number Man would have laughed. "It's because I know you, Contessa."

Judging from her reaction, it wasn't the answer she had been anticipating. The fleeting shadow of doubt passed over her features, dark eyes fixed on him impatiently waiting for him to present solid evidence to support such a preposterous claim. Now he _really_ wished he could have explained it with a metaphor on arithmetics.

"I know that you're afraid of the loss of control that comes with losing your grip on the Path. The relationship us Thinkers have with our own feelings is...complex, for the lack of a better word. We wish we lived in a world where everything can be harnessed by cold logical thinking, but the truth is that there are some things we can't control. I find that sometimes it's better to accept it as an uncomfortable reality, rather than fight it. It saves time and effort," he studied his colleague's expression in search for any clues as to if he had overstepped. "How was that for an answer?"

"Satisfying, if incomplete," Contessa set her empty cup aside. "Come here."

The Number Man's body moved of its own volition. Next thing he knew, he had abandoned the unfinished cup of coffee on the kitchen counter and closed in three steps the small distance that separated him from his colleague.

Contessa reached out to him, one hand cupping the back of his neck. Her fingers treaded at the fine hair there, hesitating as if she was still debating with herself on what to do next. The prickling sensation that ran down his back, stopping only at the bottom of his spine, had nothing to do with the indoors temperature of the compound.

Then, she leaned in to press their foreheads together. The Number Man let out a small sigh. Was it relief? Surrender? He would have been hard pressed to tell. Somehow, that simple gesture was much more intimate than any kiss or hug or god knows what else the Number Man had been hoping for could ever be. But she was close, now, so close that he could feel her warmth against his own skin, and yet not close enough. A part of him wondered if she could feel the way his heart was thrumming against his ribcage and draw her own conclusions, just from that. It would have been so easy, no need to bother the Path.

"When you talk about things we can't control, are you speaking from personal experience I wonder?" Contessa's voice was low, barely more than a whisper.

"Contessa, I..." The words were left hanging in the air. For all his talk about control and acceptance, the shame that came with the knowledge of not being immune to something as embarrassingly human as infatuation was almost unbearable.

_I think I might be in love with you._ He asked himself if Contessa wanted to hear him say it. If that was what she wanted, after all.

As to why she might want it, well, that felt like yet another wrong question. Maybe seeing him at a loss would make her feel better about herself. Maybe she just needed to see for herself that there were far more pathetic people walking the surface of Earth than a semi-omniscient precog momentarily stumped by the single creature that went beyond her understanding. Too many questions he wanted to ask and all of them wrong.

While his brain worked in earnest to come up with a compromise that wouldn't have him losing all of his leftover dignity, his body reacted once again without his consent. He felt the tiniest tinge of nervousness as he tilted his head, lips brushing ever-so-lightly against Contessa's. Lingering, giving her the chance to pull back if she so desired and the same time dreading the humiliation that would come with being rejected.

A rejection that wasn't going to come any time soon, but how could he know? That was the thing about Thinkers - extremely perceptive but only within the limits set by the limited scope of their power. There was no equation that could enlighten him on what Contessa would do or say when he swallowed his pride and kissed her, and it made it all the more terrifying.

The kiss was slow, softer than he'd ever thought possible. It was Contessa herself who pulled him in for a second kiss. Gentle and firm at the same time, a silent command he had no intention to defy. There was none of the desperate passion so often advertised, no overwhelming euphoria that made him feel lightheaded and weak at the knees. Just the crystal-clear impression that it was _right_ and the realisation that he wouldn't mind kissing her again, after that. And maybe a fourth time, for good measure.

The Number Man didn't even realise Contessa's hand had left the back of his neck until he opened his eyes and found her staring at him.

"I got the answer I was looking for," she declared.

"That's, uh, good." Was all he was able to stammer out. "I'm glad to hear that."

Stepping away was a dauting task. The Number Man found himself stumbling on his own feet, struggling to regain awareness of his surroundings.

Luckily, Contessa had no intention of letting him go that far. Placing a hand on his back, she steered him so that he was now sitting beside her on the edge of the kitchen table, in perfect reach for her arm to sneak around his waist. They leaned against one another, Contessa's head coming to rest on his shoulder.

"Stay," she told him.

As if he had any desire to be anywhere else.

 

 

 

"Kurt?"

"Uhm?"

"Thank you."

"Any time."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it, my friends! Thanks for sticking with me until the end and double thanks to everyone who kudo-ed and commented. I'm definitely not leaving this fandom just yet – too many WIPs and ideas I really need to write. 
> 
> So until next time, I guess!

**Author's Note:**

> Did I steal the title from a series of children’s books by Lemony Snicket? Yes. Am I still utterly obsessed with this ship? Also yes.


End file.
